I'll Be Here
by newgirl87
Summary: AU Season 3. What can a butler offer his best friend when she has been diagnosed with a deadly illness? (NO SPOILERS!)
1. Chapter 1

_Author's Note: This is sad, and I wrote it cause sometimes you just need a good cry.  
_

 _Inspired partially by Audra McDonald's I'll Be Here (if you're not looking for a good cry, I suggest NOT listening to that song)_

* * *

 _May 1920_

The door closed and then another. They were late. Carson set down the silver fork but in his haste to reach the kitchen forgot about the rag in his hand and the apron around his waist.

Mrs. Patemore stood in the kitchen. One hand rested gently upon the counter as she stared unblinkingly at the sink. The heaviness in the air should have told Carson everything he needed to know. But he ignored it. Confirmation could only come from one source.

"She wants to see you." Mrs. Patemore said, still staring at the sink. "Only give her a moment, I think she'd appreciate getting her words in order."

Carson nodded. The rag in his hands became the only real thing he understood in that moment. He began folding it and unfolding it, walking slowly to her door. Pressing his ear against the wood he listened for any sign of weeping. A light shuffling greeted him and nothing more.

It didn't occur to him how strange he must look, standing with his ear pressed against the housekeeper's door, practically leaning against it - and that was what would have been strangest of all: Mr. Carson never leaned against anything in his life. But he didn't think how strange it was. His thoughts instead showed him her room and her desk and _her_ most of all, strutting about as she tidied up her belongings after her long afternoon errand.

He counted to twenty then knocked on the door.

A soft "come in!" sounded from within. It took a lifetime to reach the door handle and then another to open the door.


	2. Chapter 2

_Thank you for your reviews! These will be short chapters, but it's 78% done and new chapters should appear daily._

* * *

As he entered the room a strange ringing began in his ears. Mrs. Hughes smiled at him, finishing putting away her scarf and gloves.

"Mrs. Patemore said you wished to see me." He said.

She nodded with her smile fixed in place. Her eyes focused in on her task. Like him, she folded and refolded the scarf in her hands. Until, sighing heavily, she practically threw the scarf in its box and turned to face him.

"Perhaps we should sit down." She said.

They sat with the table between them. He felt the rag in his hand and wished fiercely that he had left it behind. It had no place in this moment. Its use was for keeping gorgeous things polished, not witnessing - he couldn't bring himself to think it. The ringing in his ears grew worse.

"I've cancer." she said, "Dr. Clarkson confirmed it this afternoon."

He nodded.

With nothing to respond with, he studied her for guidance. She sat upright in her chair, her hands fiddled with themselves on her lap. Her eyes were faraway, staring a hole into her desk chair. Not for the first time, he realized he had nothing to offer her. So all he said was, "I see."

He was waiting for tears, whether they were his or hers he couldn't tell but he waited patiently anyway. None came. They sat silently side by side with the table between them.

"It doesn't change anything," she continued, "I'll continue to work until I am unable to do so. I'm afraid I can't say how long that will be, but I'm sure we'll have found a new housekeeper by then."

"Of course."

"And I don't wish to tell the staff until we need to," she added, "Mrs. Patemore already knows."

She had whispered those last words. Or had she? He couldn't tell. His ears felt like they were on fire and the ringing had done nothing but increase. His throat had dried up, swallowing was becoming impossible which meant he had even fewer words to offer.

"Is there anything I-" he stopped, recognizing how foolish he was about to sound. He was no doctor, no church officiate, he couldn't give her anything she might need.

"No." She confirmed

He nodded. A sob welled up inside his chest and his eyes watered in an effort to keep it down. He needed to leave.

"I should get on." He said.

"Yes," she said, quietly. For the first time she almost sounded sad, "We both should."


	3. Chapter 3

_Many thanks for your reviews! I look forward to them each and every time I post._

* * *

Two days went by and things returned to normal. Except Carson didn't sleep anymore. Visions of his cousin dying from stomach cancer crept across his mind, with his cousin replaced by Mrs. Hughes. The agony, the retching,...the blood. And why should his Mrs. Hughes be fated as such? Why must she be the one to carry that burden?

He rolled over in his bed, sleep eluding him for the third night in a row.

It occurred to him he didn't know what kind of cancer Mrs. Hughes suffered. Was it of the stomach? the liver? her bones?

It felt indecent to ask.

What was most troubling was how _fine_ she looked. How could someone so healthy looking, so vibrant and effervescent, be on the brink of dea- No. Pain. She would be in pain, there was no doubt of that. But he couldn't see that she was in pain now.

She even laughed. When Alfred joked with Anna, or Mrs. Patemore commented on the slowness of the footmen, Mrs. Hughes would laugh. And now that he'd come to think of it, she was laughing more than he had ever seen her laugh.

The night before they had drunk a wonderful sherry that he'd been saving for an occasion of some type. The whole night they spent laughing at old stories of bygone maids and hallboys. It had been past eleven before they went up, something for which he kicked himself. The woman needed her rest if she was -

But she wasn't going to get better.

He groaned, rolling over in his bed once more. The sheets tangled about his legs and he found himself uncaring. Three days of uncaring. He'd even forgotten to decant the dessert wine.

Resigning himself to another night's sleeplessness he left his bed to find some tea. And perhaps a biscuit or two.

The kitchen was deserted. For that he was grateful. Once the tea and a small tin of biscuits were procured he sat himself at his desk and began to eat slowly. The longer he took the sooner the sun would rise and he could begin his day. He could say 'good morning' to Mrs. Hughes. Because he had decided that not a day would go by that he didn't say good morning to her. Nor would a night disappear without him wishing her a 'good night.'

He set down the biscuit he was eating. Blinking, he tried to hold back his tears. One escaped and he told himself he wasn't going to cry. He would not cry. And as he told himself to reign it in, the tears fell sloppy and wet and his handkerchief was upstairs in his coat pocket. He wouldn't cry. But his eyes grew puffy and his face grew wet. Sobs wracked his body as he tried desperately to keep them in.

One day he would not be able to say 'good morning' to her.

The scampering of feet in the passageway pulled him from his mourning. Blonde hair and a white nightdress swished away. Anna.

Once again he found himself uncaring.


	4. Chapter 4

_A/N: I debated posting this, given the horrors that happened in Paris, but for those who don't want to continue reading there is no need to move forward now, this won't disappear any time soon and you can always come back to it should you wish. And for those who do want to continue reading because it may be helpful in some way (I can only hope that it is) then this is for you. A bit more innocuous than the last few._

* * *

 _July 1920  
_

The staff finished their breakfast hurriedly. Scrapping chairs and swishing dresses cluttered the morning air. Snippets of conversation got lost in the haste:

"He's asked to be dressed by -"

"Tell me you've got another button -"

"-going into town later today, I'll fetch it for you."

The last voice belonged to Mrs. Hughes. Carson whipped his head around so fast his neck cracked.

She looked up to him in surprise, smiling lightly, "There's no need to worry. I've ordered something and it's finally arrived."

"And why can't they bring it here?" He asked.

"I fancied the walk." She said leaving the table.

Fervently he wished she'd stay and have a chat. What was it she bought? Why a walk? Could he go with her? But she had her chores and he had his and with Mr. Branson returned in disgrace they all had their worries.

As the day finished, much as it had began, in worrisome haste, Carson found himself alone at his desk drinking a small sherry. His ears pricked at any sound coming from the room next door. She was munching away at her toast, he thought testily. That bloody toaster - why had she bought it? He wanted to go to bed. But he was waiting for her - to walk her up the stairs - and she couldn't be taking a longer time.

Didn't she know she was holding him up?

And really, she should be in bed.

Setting down the now empty sherry glass, Carson strode out his door towards her sitting room. He knocked twice. No reply. Checking that the light was indeed on, seeping through the crack under her door, he slowly made his way into her room.

He found her exactly as he had pictured, siting at her table, a half eaten piece of toast in front of her, except she was sound asleep.


	5. Chapter 5

_A/N: Thank you for your reviews!_

* * *

Carson had found Mrs. Hughes asleep all of three times in their working relationship. She, on the other hand, had woken him from his slumbers what had to be well over a dozen times.

He smiled at her sleeping form. A light hum escaped every time she exhaled, which amused him to no end, and the lines on her face nearly disappeared marking her a younger version of herself. Though Carson knew each and every line by heart. He found a fondness in knowing some of them were made over the years by talking and laughing with him.

Allowing himself a moment to memorize the sleeping beauty before him, Carson felt a sudden tension coarse through him at the thought that he did not know how to go about waking her up. He never had to in the past. She had always awoken the moment he'd make a single noise. Now, however, he'd knocked upon her door and walked across creaking floor boards to no effect.

If he had it his way, he would have carried her in his arms to her bedroom, undressed her, and nestled her into warm blankets, happy to watch over her until morning. But he was certain she would have slapped him for even thinking such thoughts let alone acting upon them. So he stood there, silently, waiting for inspiration.

His body moved of it's own accord. His pulse quickened as he traced a finger across her cheek. Worry flashed - would it bother her that she had been found in such a state - while joy threatened to stop his heart as he discovered how soft her skin was.

Her eyes fluttered and he took a giant step back. He tried desperately not to look too gleeful as she gazed up at him with sleep-filled eyes. Truly, her eyes had never appeared such a dark shade of blue. And there was something about that which made it intensely difficult not to pull her into his arms and hold her to his heart's content.

He shuffled back a little father.

"Mr. Carson?" She said. "Oh heavens, I've fallen asleep."

"Indeed you have."

She chuckled a little before her eyes went wide, staring at her toaster which was smoking slightly. Reaching under her table she unplugged it, saying, "Now that _would_ have burned the house down."

He chuckled as well. For as much as he disliked the little metal contraption, her sleep filled voice brought with it a peaceful quality that kept his nerves at bay. He was finding it hard to tear his eyes away from hers, something he realized might have been making her uncomfortable; and when a light blush crept across her cheeks he thought wildly that he might have put it there.

"You might be more comfortable upstairs," he heard himself say.

"I believe you're right." She agreed.

As she stood a loud cracking noise echoed around the room. He'd heard his knees making a similar sound not a few weeks ago. But this seemed different. Instead of standing to her full height she lightly leaned against the table, her lips pursed. For a moment he thought she was in pain, but then his thoughts ceased as she reached forward and he offered her his arm.

They walked arm in arm to the staircase. He found a strange gratitude in the fact he could give her his arm to take. He had finally found something he could offer her. He only wished she would never let go.

"Thank you, Mr. Carson," she said.

He merely nodded. She released him and walked slowly up the stairs. He followed behind her and when they reached the top they said good night.


	6. Chapter 6

_A/N: Many thank to your continued support! My reviewers (and readers) and very dear to me._

* * *

 _August 1920_

There was much to do and almost no time in which to do it. A different doctor had been summoned, seemingly out of the blue. Carson hated when plans changed. Who was this man? What did he know about Lady Sybil? But Lord Grantham seemed pleased and Carson took a certain solace in that.

What Carson didn't take solace in was the large amount of work this placed on Mrs. Hughes. She was slowing down. Imperceptibly. But he could see it. There were moments left lingering in his mind hours after they had passed - with Mrs. Hughes holding tightly to the railing of the stairs, not budging until someone came up behind her; Mrs. Hughes losing her footing after breakfast, clutching his arm like a lifeline, the worried faces of the ignorant staff; moments when he was certain her body ached; moments he knew she would never tell a soul, especially not him.

He preferred playing cricket, not watching from the sidelines.

And so it was with her.

"I'm perfectly capable, Mr. Carson." She said as he pulled a stack of sheets from her arms.

"I've finished my duties, Mrs. Hughes, why not go and put your feet up a moment, I can pass these along to the maids."

"If you're finished with your duties, than it is you who should put his feet up, not me." She countered, reaching for the sheets in his arms.

"But with all the extra work you have -"

"By arguing with me here you're making _more_ work for me!"

There was an edge to her voice he'd not heard in a while. The words _you and the blessed lady Mary_ spun around his head and he knew he was creeping perilously close to an all out row, but he was determined that she get some rest, "Really now, I'm trying to do you a favor -"

"You are trying to do my work!"

"Need I remind you that we are in the middle of the hall? There is no need for raised voices."

She huffed and quickly spun her eyes to the ground, defiance written across her every feature, "My voice is not raised. Now if you will kindly give me back my sheets I will go about _my_ job."

"Mrs. Hughes -"

"Mr. Carson I am perfectly capable -

"Is everything alright?"

The two heads of house spun around. Anna stood in the doorway leading to the servants stairs. Her eyes roamed between Housekeeper and Butler and finally settled upon the sheets in the Butler's hands.

Anna, with a spirited step, said, "Shall I pass those along to Madge, then?"

Without looking at Carson, Mrs. Hughes offered Anna a tight lipped smile, "Go on, quick as you can. We've a lot to do."

The young woman gently took the sheets and raced away as swiftly as propriety demanded. Carson stared down at Mrs. Hughes triumphantly.

Mrs. Hughes, still refusing to meet his eye, said, "I better get on, Ms. O'Brien needs help carrying the new tea trays in."

She disappeared through the green baize door before Carson could get a word in. He should have let her take the sheets up. Carrying the new tea trays in was a much heavier task. He felt like kicking himself.

And then made up his mind to follow her.


	7. Chapter 7

_A/N: Thank you again for your reviews!  
_

* * *

He caught up with her near his pantry. How he was going to pull her away from the tea-tray-task he still hadn't a clue and so threw out wildly, "Mrs. Hughes, step into my pantry. I'd like a word."

He had used the tone he often reserved for ignorant footmen and he could feel the anger seething off her as she followed in behind him. She shut the door firmly and remained standing next to it. It was difficult for him to recall a time when they were standing so far apart. Even when they argued there was a respectable amount of space between them but a friendly amount as well. Now they stood so far from one another that he felt distant from her. A roaring wind of anger blew through him. This stubborn woman knew not what was good for her.

"I'll ask you to not speak to me like that in front of the staff ever again." He began, ignoring her wide eyed fury at such a statement, "I know that you are tired but that is no excuse for a drop decorum. We do not merely run this household, but we are also the examples. And today you have shown such a poor example I myself am shocked. I know you to do better." He felt his voice grow quiet as the last words formed, they were surprisingly difficult to say: "And _if_ you are tired, I ask that you take care of yourself in a manner befitting a head of this staff."

During his speech he had thought for a moment that she was going to turn around and leave. And on a small level, buried deep down inside, Carson knew she had every right to do so. But she surprised him, standing her ground, and now they stood staring at the other. Somehow, somewhere, the anger had abated slightly. The air grew lighter, less forceful. She was in charge now, and he raised his chin in opposition to her fire.

She stepped forward, "I should never have told you about my illness."

If she had stabbed him with a knife, he would have felt better. As it was he could do nothing but look away from her. It had been months since he had cried about it and he thought he'd had it all out, but the frustration he felt at losing her was now coupled with how little she thought of him. He felt broken.

She continued (and he thanked God she wasn't looking at him), "I should remind you, that when I did tell you I made it quite clear that we were to go on as normal until I am _unable_ to work. Because, Mr. Carson, I _am_ able. And I will remain _able_ for some time. I may be dying, but I am not dead."

When their eyes met, hopelessness descended. He swallowed sharply, "I do recall you saying that."

She nodded, stepping forward once more, "I know you care, Mr. Carson. And I thank you for that."

"I do care. Very much." He said, "Please, don't forget that."

"I won't." Her arms swept back and forth as she hesitated to speak, until she settled on a sad smile and glanced up at him warmly, "Anna saw you -"

"I wondered if she told you."

"I hope you don't mind." She almost laughed, "She wanted me to look after you."

He allowed himself a laugh because that's what you did when irony was staring you in the face. But he didn't feel much like laughing. And when he finally found his voice he choked, "no, I don't mind she told you."

Then her hands were clutching his, holding them together in front of her. He squeezed her fingers. Please don't let me go, he thought. But she did, briefly, with one hand. And the moment stood still, time stopping as she reached forward to brush a tear from his cheek. Her thumb lingered.

But then the hustle of the passageway burst in and time resumed it's normal pace.

"Mrs. Hughes? I do still need help with these tea trays." Ms. O'Brien said, standing impatiently in the doorway.

The housekeeper nodded and swiftly left his side. At some point their hands must have released though he couldn't recall letting her go. He didn't think he would consciously let her go ever again.


	8. Chapter 8

_Many thank again for your reviews. They are fuel to keep going!_

* * *

 _March 1921_

Tea was served. Alfred stood at attention. Carson let his eyes wander about the room carefully noting anything out of place, anything missing or discordant as the family talked and sipped their afternoon away. Noting everything as it should be he let himself relax into the background.

"I've talked with Murray, and he's agreed to the new plan." Lord Grantham was saying.

Mr. Branson nodded, "As we suspected he would be."

Lady Edith said, "Sybil would be so proud, how well the two of you work together now."

"Carson," said Lady Grantham, "where's James? I hope we've not overwhelmed him too much."

It was true, the house seemed to be host to the largest variety of guests swinging in and out of the Downton doors since before the war. Carson offered a light smile, "No, my lady. He's suffering a slight cold and should be back on his feet in a few days."

Lady Edith chimed, "Oh good. Alfred looks quite forlorn without him."

Carson nodded and noted with pride that the second footman had barely flinched; though Carson knew Alfred had bristled internally at the comment. It still pained Carson somewhat how his lordship had intervened, making James first footman. While he understood the reasoning, it still felt highly improper. Afterall, Alfred _was_ the taller of the two.

Mr. Barrow arrived, an urgency in his steps. With a quick raise of his eyebrows, Mr. Barrow made clear that Carson was needed downstairs. The butler and under-butler switched places and Carson left the family to their own devices.

It was probably James, thought Carson. It was usually James nowadays, causing some form of mischief. The promotion to first footman had gone to his head and even after seven months his ego had yet to deflate.

And indeed, as Carson rounded to the bottom of the staircase he found James hovering over something in the middle of the passageway. The young man's robe was askew as the maids whisked about. But before Carson could form a reprimand, he discovered that James was hovering over a pale Mrs. Hughes, holding a soft cloth to her forehead. She appeared to be asleep.

"What's happened?" Carson asked.

"She fell." James said, "I was coming down for a bit of tea and I saw her. She just fell straight down the stairs, hit her head. I tried to catch her Mr. Carson. I did. But -"

"It is not your fault." Because it wasn't - it was the illness and God or the Devil or just bad luck -

Mrs. Patemore came running forward, "Mr. Barrow's already called Dr. Clarkson."

The cook and butler exchanged a dark look. Carson said, "Let's get her to her room."

"No, no," said Mrs. Patemore, "The doctor said to leave her be, in case she's broken anything."

With a grunt of acknowledgement, Carson found himself wondering what on earth he could do. James held the cloth to her forehead. Mrs. Patemore had already brought a small pillow for her head. Relegated by default, Carson stood guard, snapping at the maids and trying without much success to keep his heart from pounding out of his chest. Mrs. Hughes all the while remained in the realms of unconsciousness.

A memory surfaced of a young footman, about ten years previously, who had fallen off his bicycle and hit his head against a tree. The man had awoken not long after but was found dead in his room the next day. On some terrible level, Carson wondered if that might not be an easier fate for his Mrs. Hughes. A quick and quiet death in her sleep could be more preferred than the pain and suffering soon to come.

Except he hadn't had the chance to say goodbye.

Or tell her he loved her.

The doctor arrived quick enough. No broken bones. The younger men carried the ailing Housekeeper to her room and the younger maids got her settled in her bed. Carson and Mrs. Patemore debated what they should tell the staff. Some were already beginning to suspect.

Indeed, Mr. Barrow pulled Carson aside that evening to offer his own wonderings. "Mrs. Hughes doesn't appear to be herself these days."

"We've all tripped on these old floorboards at one time or another," said Carson.

"We certainly have. But - considering the state she's in. Oughtn't someone to contact her sister? Just in case it's more serious than that?"

"Her sister?" said Carson, "Yes, indeed, I've already sent a letter."

But he hadn't sent a letter. And while his outward demeanor might have appeared unshaken to Mr. Barrow, deep within Carson was experiencing a tumult of horror and confusion. Because he never knew Mrs. Hughes had a sister.


	9. Chapter 9

_Thank again to my readers and reviewers for sticking with this story!_

* * *

Three days. It had been three days since her fall. Since they told the staff about her illness. Three days since she had been on the mend with instruction to take it easy. And yet somehow he had given in and allowed her wish for a walk.

Which is how he found himself mid-day strolling through the Abbey grounds with his beloved on his arm.

They took a slow pace. She was still healing as far as he was concerned. As far as _she_ was concerned she was fine. A mild bit of dizziness. That's all it was. Except Dr. Clarkson confirmed the danger she was in. That dizziness meant a shortness of breath, and a shortness of breath meant something to do with the lungs, and Carson couldn't understand half of what had been said to him that night -

But he was grateful she had allowed the Doctor to speak with him.

He was grateful for a lot of things really: she was opening up to him. He'd been surprised to find there were still secrets between them. That there were things she couldn't say even to him. Because when it came to her, he couldn't stop himself from speaking, couldn't reign in his words or his actions. When she asked him why he'd been so glum after that incident with Grigg he told her the whole story - well almost the whole story, leaving Alice out was par for the course because even he didn't want to remember Alice - and when he was ill he told her what was ailing him. Even the other night he could hardly hold in his guilt...

 _"She's awake. A bit disoriented. She's asking for you." Mrs. Patemore pulled him from sleep. He practically ran to Mrs. Hughes room.  
_

 _He found a chair next to her bed and sat in it. Hands folded in his lap he waited patiently. His silence hiding the very real struggle going on in his gut: they were alone and anything might happen, anything might be said; why was her nightgown so thin?_

 _Was she cold?_

 _Was she going to be alright?_

 _Silly question. He already knew the answer._

 _"In my desk," she started, words coming achingly slow, "the left hand, bottom drawer, is a small book of addresses."_

 _Shifting guiltily, Carson barely refrained from telling her he already knew that. Refrained from explaining that he had spent the last hours of the evening rifling through her drawers trying to find any hint of a second Hughes woman. If he had been more certain of the outcome - more certain that she was going to wake up - he wouldn't have dared. But, for once, Mr. Barrow was right. Mrs. Hughes' sister should be informed._

 _"Bring it to me, please." She finished._

 _"Is this concerning your sister?" He asked, because he had to know, he couldn't keep something so important hidden away._

 _If she was surprised he knew, she didn't show it, "yes, I've a letter that needs sending."_

 _"Can it not wait until the morning?"_

 _"No. I...I want it written, just in case."_

 _Then she explained. Because the look on his face, wonderment confusion exasperation, had forced her hand._

And he had three days to mull it over and come to the only possible conclusion.


	10. Chapter 10

_You guys are the best! Thanks again for the support!_

* * *

Arm in arm Mrs. Hughes led him towards the lake. Their path meandered past her favorite flowers, only just beginning to bloom. The March rains sprinkled green buds throughout the pastures as winter warmed into spring.

Still, a brisk wind could catch a person unawares, and so Carson kept her close. At least, as close as propriety allowed.

They talked of the beauty to come in the summer (without mentioning their shared worry that she might not live to see it).

They talked of wine and their favorite pairings.

They talked of dessert.

And finally, as they reached the lake and a cool wind turned their noses red, Carson broached the subject burning a hole in his pocket.

"Are you still certain that when your time comes, your sister will be left to the hands of God?" He asked, restating her worries from a few nights before.

"Not entirely," she said, standing closer, her hip pressed firmly against his own, "I've done several calculations. Lady Grantham has been generous in paying for my medical bills, which has allowed me to send money in advance for my sister's care."

The balloon in his chest deflated a touch at her words, but he soldiered on, "I hope I don't over step the mark by asking, but how long will that last her? And what happens when rates go up, as they are ever want to do?"

"It depends I suppose. The longer I'm able to maintain my position the longer I am able to save - I can't save much mind, but it may be enough to keep her for a year. The Doctor she's with says he won't increase the rates once I've passed," her voice wavered, "but there is only so much money to go around. At some point, her fate will be dictated by God as I will have no say in the matter."

He nodded, warmth shot through him as she squeezed his arm. He said, "And what if I had a say in the matter?"

It was a strange sound. Almost like a hiccup. He had never heard her make such a noise before. It could very well have been a sob. But when he looked at her face, drank in her features, he saw no indication that he had upset her.

"Mr. Carson I know what you're suggesting," she said, "but I don't think I can allow you to carry such a burden."

Pursing his lips to keep from smiling he found a deep pride in himself as he had anticipated this very reaction. He moved away from her slightly in order to pull out a paper from inside his coat. His heart swelled when she didn't remove her hand from the crook of his elbow.

He continued, "I had this drawn up in 1910, and Mr. Crawley helped me make some minor adjustments to it a few years ago."

He handed her the paper.

Her eyes roamed across the sprawling handwriting. His Last Will and Testament. It was all very clear. She would have been afforded everything he owned, every cent he had. When she finally looked up to him he felt what could only have been an electric shock shoot through him from head to toe. The intensity of her gaze overwhelmed him until he forgot where he was, who he was, and could see only her.

She bit her lip and that simple action brought him back to reality.

He explained, clearing his throat, "When it came to...us...I always assumed I would be the first to go. As that's not to be the case let me use what would have been yours to continue your sister's care."

But she already was shaking her head, "It would have been mine only because you wouldn't have been in need of it -"

"I don't need it. I have a lot put by." He said, "And I hate to pull rank but I know the staff figures and I can afford the cost better than you can."

She stared at the lake. Little ripples emerged as the wind floated across it. He could see her own eyes watering. They should be getting inside.

"I don't want to be a burden to you." she said simply.

"You have never been, nor ever could be a burden to me. Every bit of what I have," _Every bit of me,_ he added to himself, "is yours."

"I can't ask you to -"

"You're not asking. I'm offering."

After a moments hesitation, she nodded. He breathed a sigh of relief. Finally he could do something, finally he had something to offer her.

As they made their way back to the Abbey she kept her head down. Her hat obscured her face. It wasn't until she paused, a tug at his arm pulling him from his stupidly happy thoughts that in some strange way she had accepted him, that he saw her face.

She was starring at him. And he allowed himself to stare back. He waited for her to speak but words never came. Instead, she bit her lip as her eyes roamed across his forehead, his large nose, his cheeks, his lips.

He swallowed.

When she'd drank her fill of him she turned and they finished their walk back to the servant's door. He wondered if he should have kissed her, then shoved the thought away. Propriety aside, he felt certain that the last thing she wanted was a kiss from Mr. Carson.


	11. Chapter 11

_This marks a bit over half-way. Thanks for hanging out and leaving your wonderful reviews!_

* * *

 _May 1921_

Not that he was counting, but it had been a year since her diagnosis. And while she had certainly lost quite a lot of weight in that time, Carson couldn't help but be thankful he'd had an entire year with her. He woke early that morning. Could barely contain his joy. He waited for her at the bottom of the stairs, wanting to greet her first thing. To prove that she was indeed alive, that he hadn't just dreamed the last few months.

And she smiled at him, offering a 'good morning'.

He smiled in return, had touched her arm as they passed - again to prove that she was real, alive.

But as the day went on he discovered that he couldn't seem to keep his hands off her.

During breakfast his arm bumped hers accidentally and then he'd left his arm there just to keep contact. When they'd spoken mid-morning he'd touched her elbow as Alfred came barreling down the passageway. After ringing the dressing gong she found him, pulled him by the arm and he might have let his hand touch the fabric of her dress. She was magnetic.

What surprised him most was that she didn't seem to mind.

He almost thought it was a mistake to ask her for sherry after their dinner, but the words fell from his mouth before he could consider them and she was already accepting, even as his hand lingered on her forearm.

That night they talked of inane things - the weather, the cricket, the linens - all the while their hands inched across the table towards the other. He was a hairs breath away from her fingertips when they were interrupted by Mr. and Mrs. Bates.

"Mrs. Hughes," the valet said, "Anna meant to pass these along earlier, though I hope you will accept them now."

He produced a bouquet of Yarrow tulips. Mrs. Hughes stood, pulling her hand away from Carson, and accepted the gift graciously.

The couple said goodnight as Mrs. Hughes placed the flowers in a small vase. Carson saw her eyes float across the clock on her wall. It was nearing midnight. Most of the staff were already in bed and she must have been thinking along the same lines.

"I should head up. It's a long day tomorrow," he said reluctantly.

She frowned, "Let me just give these some water and I'll walk up with you."

Good, he thought, he wanted to walk with - but then she passed him and deliberately brushed against him. It was impossible to keep the blush from creeping up his neck. Luckily he wasn't required to hide it as she was already in the kitchen. He allowed himself a moment to play out all the different ways he might kis - touch- her as they climbed up the stairs in a moment. Not one of them would occur, but he had learned there was little harm in imagining.

A scream. A crash. Broken glass.

She was half-laying, half-sitting on the floor in the kitchen amidst the broken glass of the vase. Her hands clutched her thigh. Her face was a picture of barely concealed pain.

"I'll call the doctor," was all he could say.

When he returned she hadn't moved. Her face had grown pale. Lips pursed he wondered if she was containing another scream.

"What happened?" He asked, not being able to keep the frustration from his voice: everything had been going so well!

She groaned, "I bumped into the...into the counter."

His mind split in five directions - It was only the counter? Had she broken something? What was he going to do about the glass? Should he wake Mrs. Patemore - and he settled on "Why didn't you turn the lights on?"

She glared at him. And he almost smiled. That was the Mrs. Hughes he knew.

"The doctor said not to move you." He said. But he kneeled next to her anyway. She grabbed his hand, clutching tightly so that his fingers turned the same white shade as her face.

Dr. Clarkson arrived surprisingly quickly. Carson stood in the passageway; Mrs. Hughes was required to lift her skirts in order for the Doctor to work. Carson fumed at himself. If they were married he could be there with her through every step of the way. Through every minute of the day really. They wouldn't have to part at night. They wouldn't have to part ever. They wouldn't have to part until she -

But how selfish could he be? Wanting after her when she was so ill, when it was quite clear she wanted no part of him.

Or did she?

Given the way she touched him, reached for him -

"I've given her something for the pain." The doctor's voice pulled him from his thoughts. Clarkson walked him back to Mrs. Hughes.

The doctor continued, "I'm afraid she has a small fracture. Under normal conditions it would be nothing to worry about. But given her state, it may never heal. And there may be more to come."

Carson nodded. He wasn't quite sure what any of it meant. She grabbed his hand again.

The Doctor continued, "It may be a blessing, but I suppose it depends on how you look at it."

"How do you mean?" Mrs. Hughes asked.

"The cancer may reside in your bosom, but it can effect a great many things. If it's your limbs then you may be with us for a while longer than we had originally thought. Of course, you may also be in great pain during that time."

She nodded.

How she managed to maintain such a stoic countenance Carson couldn't fathom.

The Doctor left, with a promise to return the next day to keep a careful watch. But from now on, it was suggested, Mrs. Hughes stay off her feet.

Gently, Carson slipped his arm under her legs. His other hand supported her back. She wrapped her arms around his neck to help him support her. He carried her to her room. They worked as a team, she turned the knobs of the doors as he kicked them shut behind them. He shut her bedroom door as well, not thinking what that might mean.

When he set her on her bed she didn't let go. She clutched him to her. His face buried into her pillow beside her hair.

She said, "You're comforting."

He almost sobbed. But instead, he caught her lips with his. Barely touching, he didn't move except for his hands tightening around her body, until she leaned in, pressing her lips to his. His life stood still for that minute they kissed hardly moving, experiencing for the first time the contours of the other.

A small voice shouted in his head that she didn't want this, and he began to pull away. But she caught him again, kissing him, holding him to her like a lifeline.

Her lips parted and he deepened the kiss. As she opened up to him his only coherent thought was that he never wanted this to end.

A sob welled up and she turned her head as tears streamed from her deep blue eyes. He hungrily kissed her cheeks, her nose, her neck. He knew why she was crying, and if he hadn't been overwhelmed by the sweetness of what kissing her could do to him, he would have been sobbing as well. Because they had found each other too late. Because no matter what happened now they had a limited amount of time together. And nothing, no kiss in the world, could fix that.


	12. Chapter 12

_Your reviews have been nothing but generous and kind and I can't wait to get to the ending just to find out your thoughts! Thank you so much dear readers!_

* * *

She hadn't agreed to marry him.

What she said was, "You don't want to marry a dying woman."

But she continued to hold him to her so that he whispered in her ear, "I would marry you even if it were only for a day."

She told him to wait a week, and if he still wanted to marry her then he could ask again.

He agreed.

Between Mrs. Patemore and himself they managed to set up a schedule for various visitors to come look in on Mrs. Hughes. A rotation of maids and footmen brought her tea and pies and sandwiches. She would not be left alone. Carson didn't want to tempt her to stand on her own or do some other foolish thing only she could imagine.

Carson himself took the evening shift. The time right after the family went to bed and before Daisy or Mrs. Patemore would come in to spend the night with the housekeeper.

At first, he sat half on her bed his one foot firmly on the ground to keep propriety in check (as well as to enhance the ability to spring up into a standing position should anyone interrupt them). He read to her. She leaned against his arm following the dialogue from _As You Like It_. Every now and then he would pause to tell her how beautiful she was, kiss her hair (or her forehead or her cheek - always avoiding her lips) and she would nudge him telling him to get on with it.

But then - after breaking down and kissing her, losing himself in her, the way she felt against him, her curves, the warmth seeping through her thin nightgown, until being interrupted by a Mrs. Patemore and scrambling to find his footing and straighten his jacket and tie - they decided to play cards keeping a table firmly between them.

He felt like an animal.

But every time he considered how little time he had with her his body betrayed his natural decorum and he had to touch her or kiss her, hold her close. The Doctor had made mention of her 'being with us longer than originally thought'. What did that mean? Did she know how long she had? Playing the coward, he hadn't dared to ask her. He didn't want to know.

A week went by, and she was still there. Moved, she slept in a small bedroom off the northwest wing. Lady Grantham's promise kept, a nurse was brought in to attend to Mrs. Hughes' every whim. But the Housekeeper was kind and 'really didn't need anything'. She was only confined to bed in case her legs continued to fail her, otherwise she felt 'perfectly fine'.

Carson had a feeling she was lying, but he tried to ignore that feeling as much as possible.

After all, it was the end of their agreed upon week. And so he asked her again.

What she said was, "very well."

But when she caught sight of how his face had crumbled (after all he didn't want to force her, he wanted her to love him as much as he loved her and he was continually in the belief that no woman could ever love him so how on earth could she?) she corrected herself, smiling teasingly and added _Of course I'll marry you, you old booby._

He wanted them married as quickly as possible. He ignored the pity tinged congratulations given by each member of the family. Reverend Travis barely cracked a smile. No doubt everyone's thoughts meandered back to William and Daisy's wedding. But this would be different, Carson told himself, because Mr. and Mrs. Carson would have much longer than a few hours.

Or so he hoped.

And thus, they were married on a Saturday morning, May 29th. The entire Crawley family and their staff in attendance so some of the younger staff were forced to stand in the hallway. Lady Mary kept her hand protectively over her stomach and had smiled brightly when Carson caught her eye. The Dowager patted his arm as she left. Mrs. Crawley gave a firm 'congratulations' to both of them somehow managing to keep any sorrow out of her voice.

His duties lent to Mr. Barrow, Carson was finally able to spend an entire day with his wife.


	13. Chapter 13

_GAH! I failed to post yesterday! My many apologies: life caught up with me at the end of the day in the form of a "nap" which ended with me waking up seven hours later. A break was clearly much needed._

 _I plan to have two posts up tonight._

 _Your reviews just become kinder and kinder and I'm so excited every time I post to hear what you all think!_

 _A reminder that this is an Alternate Universe! Pay strict attention to that! ALTERNATE! And in Story Teller Logic: if a certain person doesn't die than a certain Lord with a certain Valet can't become a part of the story line so that a certain Ladies Maid doesn't have to endure anything more horrible than a headache..._

* * *

 _October 1921_

 _I wonder if she's feeling better_ , Carson thought to himself. All morning Elsie had sniped at him. He couldn't tell if he deserved it or if she was just in a foul mood. Desperately he had pushed any thought away that her temper rose from the pain. And while she may have been lying to the Doctor about how much pain she was in, Carson knew far better. Knew how she flinched at certain touches, how her eyes watered arbitrarily as she tried to contain herself.

And so he had fled. Fled his worrying thoughts as much as her anger.

It was Lady Mary who found him sitting on the bench overlooking the lake. Carson offered her a doting smile and began to rise.

"No, please, sit down," she said.

And to his surprise she planted herself next to him, close enough he could smell her perfume.

It had been many years since they last sat like this. He recalled a little girl who stole away from Nanny just to come find him sitting beneath the shade of an old Ash tree. A smart young girl, from the time she knew what reading was she asked him to read to her. It didn't matter if she understood it or not. And he was always happy to explain it. She would lean against him, standing to look over his shoulder as he sat on the ground. Sometimes he had chocolates to offer her, and sometimes she brought him an apple.

The vestiges of her youth echoed in her eyes as she regarded him.

"How is Master George fairing?" He asked.

"He's a cheerful little chap," she smiled, "though I'm afraid Mr. Crawley may be putting Nanny out of a job."

"I have caught sight of Mr. Crawley and Master George wandering the passageways."

"And poor Nanny Palmer is left with nothing to do." But even as she said it she was laughing.

It felt good to see her laugh. He wanted nothing more for her than happiness and she finally had it. His heart felt lighter for it.

They sat in silence a moment. Each watching the ripples scatter across the lake. The leaves were changing colors as summer faded into fall. Christmas was only three months away and every Friday Carson made his way to church, praying for his Elsie to see one last Christmas; one last Christmas as a dearly loved wife.

Lady Mary, as though sensing his thoughts, asked, "and how is Mrs. Carson fairing?"

"Better than expected." he said, "What I have gathered is that Mrs. Carson is strong and she is fairing far better than anyone could have hoped. But I'm afraid I don't always understand what Dr. Clarkson says."

If he was being honest with himself, there was a lot Carson didn't understand. Why were her legs so affected when the cancer resided in her bosom? Dr. Clarkson had gone on and on about how there are many changes and oddities about what was happening and something about her bones being weakened, about how cancer could effect anything and everything. What it all came down to, and was really the only thing Carson understood: that no matter what happened to his wife she was going to die.

"I don't know how you manage it," Lady Mary said, "If anything were to happen to Mr. Crawley I doubt I could go on living."

"I won't suggest it's easy, M'Lady," he said, "but I still see her every day, and for that I am grateful. Life is to be cherished now more than ever and I am, we both are, in great debt to your family for the generosity and kindness they have shown us in these troublesome hours."

For the acts of the Crawley family were unbelievably kind and generous. The bed in which he now slept in, shared, and shared intimately, with his wife; the room and bath so close together allowing for the necessary privacy; the rotation of nurses; the meetings with her ladyship which allowed Mrs. Carson to still function in parts of her role as housekeeper. He couldn't have dreamed of a more comfortable situation.

"Your loyalty to this family deserves all we can give, Carson."

"Thank you, M'Lady," he said, hearing the tremble in his voice and thanking God Lady Mary had the tact not to mention it.

"I think I'll leave you to your thoughts." she smiled sadly, taking her leave.

He stood as she stood. Brushing her gloved hand across his indecision crossed her eyes; but in the end she walked away from him and he was left to sit alone on his bench.


	14. Chapter 14

_HAVE YOU READ CHAP 13?_

 _HAVE YOU?_

 _READ CHAP 13!_

 _TWO POSTS IN A SHORT AMOUNT OF TIME!_

 _DID YOU READ IT?_

 _OKAY...YOU CAN CONTINUE..._

* * *

 _Christmas 1921_

Carson woke to his wife's soft snores. Her breathing calmed him as much as it amused him. A smile crept across his face as he memorized the odd 'puft' sound that escaped her lips with each breath. His smile widened as he remembered that it was Christmas Day. His first Christmas with his wife.

Rolling over he checked the time. Quarter to five. A familiar battle raged inside his breast: to wake her with a kiss or let her sleep? It being Christmas he opted to let her sleep. There would be plenty of time for them during the family's luncheon.

Quietly he slipped out of their bed, being sure to release the pressure of the mattress slowly enough not to rouse her. He found his slippers where he left them, right besides the bed. His robe lay across the chair on the other side. Without making a sound he found his way in the dark and threw the soft material across his shoulders.

His plan included walking silently to the bath, cleaning his teeth and relieving himself without waking his darling wife.

What had not been a part of his plan was stubbing his toe on her chair.

Nor was the loud "damn" that fell from his lips as his large toe throbbed.

He swore again when he heard Elsie say, "Hmpm?"

Limping to her, he let his hand brush her hair, "Sh, my dear, go back to sleep. I'm sorry I woke you."

He kissed her temple.

"It's Christmas." she said.

Lips still lingering against her skin, he was astonished to hear the excitement in her voice. He chuckled, "yes, it is indeed Christmas."

She rolled over enough so he could kiss her lips and then quickly deepened the kiss. It was a lesson they had both learned early on in their marriage: that it was hard to smile and kiss at the same time. So she broke from him.

"Happy Christmas, Charles."

"Happy Christmas, Elsie."

They shared a grin.

She kissed his cheek, "I've got a present for you."

"Oh?"

He didn't dare ask how she had achieved such an end when she was bed bound and all but immobile.

"I made it for you," she explained, "While you were performing your duties."

"Made it for me? You should have been resting."

She tutted, "I can't sleep all day. What would be the point of that when God's granted me these remaining hours?"

He had no response to this and so pressed a quick kiss to her palm. Returning his smile, she leaned to gather his gift from the drawer in her bedside table. He ignored the hiss of pain this caused, rubbing her side and leaning forward to press his face into her hair.

She kissed his ear, being the only place she could reach, until he moved from her. Biting her lip she placed the tenderly wrapped gift in his hand.

"You've always remarked on how much you fancied my handwriting and since we just finished it I thought I might leave you with something to remind you -"

He cut her off with a searing kiss.

In his hands he held a wood frame, in which contained a stitching (in her handwriting) of the very first lines of his favorite soliloquy:

 _All the world's a stage  
And all the men and women merely players_  
 _They have their exits and their entrances  
And one man in his time plays many parts_

As he pulled away he said, "Thank you. Thank you for granting me my most cherished part of all, that of the role of husband."

She pressed her lips to his once more, holding tightly to the lapels of his robe, before smirking and adding, "and lover."

He looked away. Had to look away. It had been over four months since they had last joined as husband and wife. And he was loath to think about the last time, how they had learned that even with the pleasure, the pain was too much for her.

It was her hand that brought him to look at her once more. His eyes pleaded with her not to be upset; his apologies that he missed her warmth, missed being consumed by her. That she should never feel like it was her fault they could no longer - But she was still smiling lightly.

She said, "We can try again, today, if you'd like."

He shook his head, "Elsie -"

"I'm not as bad today. And I want to please you, I do -"

He shook his head again, then glanced at her, surprisingly calm, "No, but I may be able to please you."

Her look of confusion was all it took. He kissed her. Caressed her gently. And within a short period of time she was crying out his name, his hand between her thighs.

Letting her come down from her bliss he placed a quick kiss against the side of her mouth.

"I've something for you as well." He said.

"You mean that wasn't it?"

As he brought the large package towards the bed her face fell, "There was no need to get me anything."

"Of course there was," he said simply, "It's Christmas."

She unwrapped the gift slowly. The box, he knew, was familiar to her. She didn't look at him as she raised the lid and pulled out the hat.

It was difficult to tell if she was angry.

She said, "I'll never have cause to wear this."

His throat tightened, "I get you a hat every year for Christmas, Elsie, and I saw no reason to break with tradition."

He couldn't look at her. But he smiled, against all the odds, he smiled as she pressed her lips to his forehead.


	15. Chapter 15

_Thank you all for your reviews!_

 _After this chapter, there will be 4 more to go._

* * *

 _April 1922  
_

The dulcet tones of Dame Nellie whispered about his ears as Carson made his way back to his room and his wife. He wondered if she had heard any of it. They had kept her door open in case the sounds of the singer might waft upwards like the pleasant smell of an afternoon pie. Dame Nellie had been excellent. He hoped Elsie heard something of the Puccini. That had been Carson's favorite part.

The closing of a door broke him from his reverie. He was as equally as shocked as she was when he nearly collided with Anna in the passageway.

"Oh! I beg your pardon, Mr. Carson," said Anna.

"Anna. What are you doing up here at this time of night?"

"I had a bit of a headache and came up to borrow some of the powder." She explained.

Carson's brow furrowed, "I thought the headache powder was kept in the kitchen."

Anna hesitated, "It is. Normally. But I brought some up for Mrs. Carson earlier this evening."

"I wasn't aware Mrs. Carson was suffering from any headaches."

He was aware of her other aches. Her legs. And her arms. He still flinched at the memory of her telling him not to touch her. Or kiss her. He knew her breath was shallower, even in sleep. And he still hadn't decided whether or not he would sleep elsewhere - any fidgeting on his part left her in the throes of agony. But how could he? How could he waste any more hours she might have left and not spend them in her presence?

Anna explained carefully, "She says they're not bad, the headaches, and she only needs the powder as a sort of standby. Just in case."

"I see."

But they were at a stand off and he knew it. Anna wouldn't dare give up Mrs. Carson secrets, not even to him. Still, he waited. Gave Anna the chance to come clean about what exactly was ailing Mrs. Carson.

The girl gave him a soft smile. Carson, giving up, said good night.

But before he rounded the corner to his room he heard Anna say, "She doesn't want to worry you."

Clutching the corner of the wall, Carson turned just enough to give Anna a small nod. Worry him indeed. When he couldn't remember a time in his life where he wasn't worried.

He knocked when he reached his bedroom door. Anna's scurrying feet had disappeared and thus wouldn't judge him for keeping up such propriety. Certainly, they were married. But it was the decorum that mattered. It was the look of the thing. Because for Carson the look of the thing equated to the feel of the thing and he wanted nothing more than those around him, those he served (and he now counted his wife amongst them), to be as comfortable as possible.

So he knocked and then entered his own bedroom.

She was asleep as far as he could tell, his Elsie. Her tiny little body bathed in the moonlight. Her skin palled against the white sheets. Her hair was so thin.

It was getting harder to remember what she looked like before, spirited and healthy, with her dark hair and eyes. Soft hair, he knew now, and soft eyes when she looked at him.

He took the seat Anna had clearly just vacated next to the bed.

She stirred.

He reached forward, and then retracted his hand. He didn't want to hurt her.

"Charl-" she said. Her throat scratched. She had been ill so often these days that her throat had grown sore to the point of being unable to speak.

"Sh, dear," he said, keeping his hands firmly folded in his lap, "I'm here."

"I've gotto-"

He shushed her again but it was no use. She was already attempting to sit up, barely being able to push the covers off of her.

Placing his hands under her shoulders he helped her to a sitting position. She kept her eyes tightly shut as she wobbled. Really she wasn't strong enough to sit like this. Not for long.

"Anna." She said, swallowing sharply.

"She's just gone back downstairs."

She shook her head, "No, I want - I want to talk about Anna."

"You don't need to speak, dear."

"Listen." she said, her eyelids breaking open to glare at him, "I need you to promise. You'll look after- You'll look after Anna."

"Mr. Bates -"

"No," she shook her head, the motion of which clearly exhausted her, "I won't be here. You must keep your eye on her."

When he didn't say anything she added, "Promise."

He nodded, desperately wishing he could take her hand in his, "I promise."

"And Mr. Barrow."

He couldn't help how his eyebrows raised at that.

She continued, "He needs a friend. I know- I know you cannot be that friend. But you can watch - watch out for him."

He nodded again.

As she looked away from him her eyes started to cloud over, mumbling something about how William would need him too. He didn't have the heart to tell her William was dead. Instead he looked at his hands, how his fingers had unconsciously knitted together so tightly they were turning purple. When he glanced at her he tried to keep the sorrow out of his eyes.

Her body slipped, and as he helped her to lay down she added, "Mr. Branson too. Ally. He needs -"

"Of course, dear," he said.

Her eyes fluttered shut and he kissed her forehead. Her whole body was shaking and he considered calling for the nurse. But then she settled and sleep over took her.


	16. Chapter 16

_June 1922  
_

She died in his arms on a sunny summer afternoon. He had been holding her, talking to her about the morning. How Mr. Mosley had tried to teach Mr. Barrow a new cricket technique. And she had laughed.

But then she was still in his arms. Her breath stopped tickling his hand.

And he knew.

He knew she was no longer there, and yet he squeezed her body to him, clutched her to him one last time. Closing his eyes, he inhaled her scent. Tried to memorize how her slight curves fit against his body.

His mind remained surprisingly clear. The only thought running around his head was how annoyed he was that he wasn't quite sure when she had passed. That he wasn't sure what his last words were to her. He couldn't bear to think the last thing she heard him say was "but that's Mr. Moseley for you."

But then, he supposed, as he released her and slowly pulled away, he was grateful he'd had one last chance to tell her he loved her. That when she asked him to hold her he had been so overcome with joy he had nestled in next to her, kissed the side of her nose and whispered, "I love you, dear."

And she had murmured, "love you, too."

He starred at her curled body. As if he was still there, next to her. As if she were still there, listening. He kissed her cheek as he moved her onto her back, pulling the covers over her to keep her decent. He didn't want to touch her for too long. Didn't want to feel her go cold.

He wanted to remember his warm wife.

And she was no longer.

It occurred to him that Mrs. Patemore had promised to bring up some tea for them. Quickly, he walked out the door, following the passageway around the corner where he found Mrs. Patemore humming to herself as she carried the tea tray.

She dropped it when she saw the look on his face.

He stepped over the shards of broken porcelain. No explanation was needed. Gently he pressed the cook to him, hugging her while keeping an appropriate distance. He patted her back.

It was Lady Edith who walked by then. And thus the whole house would know.

In the hubbub of everything, as Graspies arrived and condolences were offered, Carson forgot to remove his wife's wedding ring. He had planned to keep it in his pocket for the rest of his life, but now it would be buried with her.

That was the thought that angered him so much so that when he slammed his pantry door the hinges broke.

Lady Mary suggested he take the day off. That he was allowed to mourn as long a time as he needed. But he presided over the family's tea. And rang the dressing gong. He served through dinner and their after dinner drinks.

The family retired early that night.

So Carson found himself shuffling to his old bedroom in the servants quarters. Previously, someone had the foresight to bring down his things. He changed quietly. His eyes wandered upwards as he wondered if she was watching him.

The last thought to cross over him before sleep claimed him was how cold it was to sleep alone.


	17. Chapter 17

_Many many many thanks for your reviews. That one wasn't easy to write. Thank you again for your willingness to follow this journey with me._

 _There will be two more after this chapter._

* * *

Carson woke up early and glanced at his bedside table. His notebook sat there, limp and untouched throughout the night, the black leather shinning in the heat of the lamp. Folding his hands across his lap, he sat in his bed. He thought that perhaps if he just sat there and did nothing then time might pause for just a moment. Just long enough for him to collect his thoughts.

It didn't work.

The traitorous clock ticked away. In less than an hour he would have to rise from his bed and put his livery on and go to his pantry and unlock his door and -

He picked up the notebook and began writing it all down. The morning after Elsie died he had begun this ritual. He wrote down everything. From cleaning his teeth to which sock he put on first to which locks he started with on his nightly rounds. He filled several pages of his notebook a day with a long list of everything that had to be done. And then throughout the day he would add to it.

He lived only to put a check mark next to the items on his list.

Only this day was different because at some point, about halfway down his list, he would have to write in:

 _Meet Mrs. Patemore at back door  
Walk to Church  
Enter Church  
Shake hands with villagers  
Sit in Pew  
Walk from Church to Cemetery  
Bury her_

He thought vaguely that he could just write in _Funeral_ and be done with it. But that wasn't keeping with his method and he wasn't sure how he felt about that. And thus the reason he wanted time to stand still, to be able to give enough thought as to whether he should write _Funeral_ or not.

Deciding that he wasn't ready to decide, he left himself some space in between _Meet Mrs. Patemore at Back Door_ and _Walk back from Cemetery_. He would decide in the moment what the right thing to do was.

In the end, it didn't matter. Mrs. Patemore had fretted - about what he still wasn't sure, it had been hard to hear over the throbbing in his ears - and he'd taken her arm in his. His notebook bounced along in his pocket between them. A gaping hole was left in the middle of his day that day and he never bothered to fill it in.

He stood at the grave, alone. The others took their leave as the sermon ended. Mrs. Patemore he had seen walk back with Mrs. Bates.

He wanted to say goodbye but the words seemed stuck in his throat. Instead he nodded. And as he walked across the lush green grass a memory flooded his mind: Elsie standing by the stairs getting a run down of priorities from the housekeeper Mrs. Smith, their first meeting, in the middle of scrambling for the arrival of his Lordship back from the war and all he'd had time for was a nod of recognition.

Memories of his Elsie seemed to be following him around. Odd moments he hadn't thought of in years. The sly smile she gave him when he first discovered she enjoyed Port. Her laughing in her sitting room before coming over to his pantry to share what was so funny. Her pushing him to take the long way back after Church one sunny Sunday morning.

He was glad to be alone.

Because he took the long way back from Church and he was certain he would have gleaned a few odd looks from his staff.

That night he woke, startled, reaching for her and fell out of his bed. His head pulsed in time with his heart as he came to realize he must have smashed his head against his side table.

It didn't matter. He got up and went to gather some tea. And maybe a biscuit or two.

Sitting in his pantry he tried to re-memorize all the memories of her, to never forget the way it felt to hold her hand, her voice next to his ear, the sound of her laugh, her accent. And again he was glad to be alone, because his tears came sloppily and his tea turned cold.

He had seen the light on in the servants hall and the hushed voices as he went about making tea. So he wasn't surprised when he felt a hand on his shoulder. Anna. Judging by her grip she was crying too. He placed a hand over hers.

After all, he had promised Elsie he would look after her.


	18. Chapter 18

_This one was oddly tricky. But I got what I wanted in it, so that's good._

 _Thanks again for your reviews! And your readership! This isn't a tale I enjoy telling in the strictest sense (Mrs. Hughes is my favorite character) but I just couldn't keep it inside._

 _One more chapter after this one!_

* * *

 _May 1926_

"I don't care where you put it, just keep it out of sight!" Carson bellowed.

Shutting his pantry door, he shook his head at Mr. Barrow's sudden lack of foresight. Any of the children's old toys they were donating _had_ to be somewhere the children wouldn't go looking. This seemed obvious to Carson. It irked him to no end that it wasn't quite so obvious to his under-butler.

A quick knock and then his door opened. He turned around to find Mrs. Patemore brandishing a knife at him.

"What in the devil -"

"Mr. Carson, need I remind you no one downstairs is hard of hearing - and we would very much like to keep it that way!" the cook said, storming off in a rush.

He sighed, clenching his fists. This was no way to start the day.

It didn't help that he had already argued with Anna (the poor girl had looked on the verge of tears); or that he had been ignoring Daisy on account of her leaving a cup of tea on the edge of his desk where it spilt down his trousers. It really didn't help that Lady Mary was overdue for her delivery and why hadn't they heard any news yet?

Taking a few calming breaths, Carson closed his eyes and tried to reign in some of the anger simmering in his belly. He didn't like feeling this way. He didn't like confrontation. And he especially didn't like being in disagreement with everyone in the household staff.

He sighed and returned to the passageway to prep for the family's luncheon.

The news of Lady Mary's second child came later that afternoon. A girl! The family rejoiced. Carson allowed the staff a glass of wine for a toast. But even while in the midst of such excitement he still managed to find himself glaring at Mr. Moseley as the valet spilled his wine while making eyes at Ms. Baxter.

After the toast and the excitement wore itself back into the regular hum of the day, Carson holed himself up in his pantry. Polishing the silver was always a good excuse to keep the others away. It was one of the few tasks that kept his mind clear and his emotions in check.

It was just another day, he reminded himself, scrubbing mercilessly at a candlestick. Just another day where nothing goes right and everything goes wrong and it will soon be over.

Just another day.

But no, that wasn't right. His whole body stalled in realization. He dropped the rag in his hand as he ran to double check his calendar.

It was May 29th.

Their anniversary.

Five years. It would have been five years.

That certainly explained why he had been on edge all week. It was odd. Really. How his subconscious seemed to be far more aware of his pain (his guilt) and memory than he was himself. How every year around this same time he became more testy and easily upset than at any other time of year. And it would always dawn too late that it was because of her.

He sent a quick prayer to Elsie, and then went to find Anna; to apologize.


	19. Chapter 19

_This is the end._

 _Thank you so much for following along on this journey. I hope the ending is at the very least satisfactory. If there's anything you wish to discuss further, feel free to PM me. As always, I look forward to your reviews - particularly now that we both know how it ends._

 _Much love to all of you!_

* * *

 _Christmas 1940_

84 years old, Carson sat on the bench overlooking the lake. The water was calm, surprisingly calm for the time of year. He preferred to watch it when it was rippling along, following the lead of the breeze. The reflecting grey sky made the world feel as if it was standing still.

Carson smiled.

Drumming his fingers on top of his knee he tried hard to remember the latest piece he had learned on his piano. He hadn't known what to do when Mr. Branson showed up with the instrument one morning a few years back. He hadn't wanted to offend the man and not take it, but how could he have accepted such a generous gift?

It wasn't until Lady Mary dropped by his cottage that he was given an explanation.

"We're downsizing," she said, sipping her tea, "but we want to make sure our favorite items remain in, well I suppose you could say in our favorite hands."

And so, not wanting to disappoint the Countess of Grantham, Carson went about learning how to play. Even if the post office matron thought he was an old fool ("why learn something new at your age? You'll drop dead before you're any good at it!") he didn't seem to care what people thought anymore. Perhaps that was the greatest thing about old age. You knew what to care about and what not to care about

"The mums need some watering," he said to himself, his fingers stilling on his knee.

"Oh, I don't know, there is a frost coming."

He spun around on his bench. Grinning, he began to rise for Miss Sybb- no, Branson, she was Miss Branson now.

"Good day to you, Miss Branson," he said.

"And to you, Mr. Carson," she smiled and sat next to him.

She and her father were the only ones in the family to call him _Mr._ Carson. To everyone else, even the villagers these days, he was just plain old Carson. Some of the boys - in their military uniforms, leaning against the candy shop windows - called him Old Man Carson. It was a sign of respect, he knew, because they came to him, and often, for advice and guidance, and he prayed for each and every one of them to return home from this ghastly war.

Two great wars in two decades. How the world could be so foolish was something Carson assumed he would never know.

The bloody Germans.

Miss Branson gave him a funny look. He must have shown his disgust and carefully changed his face into a picture of pleasantness.

She asked, "Do you often come here, and sit by the lake?"

"Most days." He said, "I like to take a mid-morning walk after my tea. And sometimes I stop here along the way."

"I've seen you before - even in the rain."

He nodded, "Sometimes. The rain makes me feel young again - invites the vigor of the blood, like an adventure but without the danger."

"Aunt Mary disagrees," Miss Sybb - Miss Brason smirked, "She thinks you're mad to go out in such weather. That you'll fall ill and then she'll have no one but her sister to talk to."

"And Mr. and Mrs. Branson," He added, "Her ladyship has a large and wonderful family and I am confident she will do just fine without me when the time comes."

"I disagree," Miss S- Branson couldn't quite keep her smile hidden this time, "she can't seem to do without you even now while you're here."

Carson sighed, knowing he would take the bait, "How so?"

"She wants you to come for dinner - it is Christmas and the family is quite lonely with George off fighting. The Countess says you ought to be there, to make it feel like Christmas again."

"I'm not sure that would be appropriate -"

"Of course it would be," Miss Branson continued, "You've played quite a large role in our family, and we would _all_ appreciate it if you were there."

"Won't it bother Mr. Barrow?"

"Oh no, he's off in London today, celebrating with a - with a friend," Miss Branson said, not making eye contact.

Trying not to understand the implication behind what she was saying, Carson said, "No staff on Christmas?"

"Not these days."

It had been almost ten years since he had left his position. The dwindling staff and the extra duties (and all those stairs) had become too much. He had been lucky. The family provided a cottage, and up until she died Mrs. Patemore brought round baskets of food to keep him through each week.

When the new cook arrived he had lost the privilege and had started learning how to cook. Rationing was making that task a lot harder to learn than playing the piano had been. He missed Daisy, even if she did send him a Christmas card every year. Odd - he had never thought he would miss the girl who had once been a lowly kitchen maid.

"Will the Young Mr. Bates be there?" Carson asked, trying desperately to find an excuse that would allow him to join the family. It didn't feel right to just up and join in as if he were a member of the upstairs. But Johnny Bates and George Crawley (now Lord Grantham) were the best of friends, so perhaps the lines weren't drawn quite as perfectly as they once were.

"Oh yes! And Anna." Miss Branson bit her lip, "Of course, she's not very happy. Johnny's been threatening to join the war effort -"

"He's too young."

"Yes, but he looks old enough, and he could fool them if he really wanted to. It's a sore subject, I wouldn't bring it up if I were you."

Carson nodded, "I won't."

Miss Branson looked gleeful, "So you'll come then?"

"Yes, I suppose I shall." He sighed.

They sat on the bench. Carson waited for Miss Branson to stand and lead him towards the delicious Christmases he remembered.

But then she said, almost at a whisper, "Are you hesitating because you don't want to be reminded of Mrs. Carson?"

He felt his eyebrows shoot up at that. In truth he hadn't thought about it. The memories Downton would bring back were mostly fond; and he had visited the Abbey before and had spent a lot of time counseling Mr. Barrow on what was what. So it hadn't been a thought - his Elsie and his Downton.

"No, no," he said, "I don't think so."

"Do you still miss her?"

"Everyday," he lied.

Miss Branson bit her lip again, "I've been thinking a lot about true love."

"Oh?" Carson wasn't sure where this was going.

"I don't think I believe in it." She said.

"No?"

"No. There are too many people. And to meet the one true love of your life in your home town seems like the luckiest roll of the dice that too many people experience."

Carson nodded, "I suppose."

"I think everyone has a well-spring of love." Miss Branson continued, almost as if Carson wasn't there, "and we have to love someone - in some way - no matter what. And so we cling to the people nearest us because we have to love someone."

"I see," Though Carson really wasn't sure he entirely understood what she was trying to say. He wasn't sure if she knew what she was trying to say. But then, it had been the same way with her mother, so he shouldn't be so surprised.

"And I think that's a good thing, really. Not to ever stop loving." Miss Branson stood up.

Carson followed suite, uncertain if she was going to keep speaking. But she turned around and he followed her back to the Abbey. As they walked Carson found himself admitting there was some truth to her words. Because even if Miss Branson was a bit too philosophical about it, he was about to spend Christmas day with a group of people he cared very deeply for. Perhaps even loved.


End file.
